The Game
by Isaldaria
Summary: John tries to deal with Sherlock's death. Song-fic with Deine Lakaien.


This is my first Sherlock-fanfiction and also my very first story written in english. So, if you want to write a review, feel free!

Post-Reichenbach!

Lyrics by Deine Lakaien („The Game" – Album "Kasmodiah" from 1999)

Disclaimer: Neither I ow BBC-Sherlock nor this beautiful song...

* * *

John turned away from the stone, lost in his thoughts, paying his surroundings no attention.  
So he missed the gaze of silver eyes, following the trail of his slumped figure, finding its way across the grass of the graveyard.

_Grey eyes flicker_

_Cold is the weed_

_Worn out shoes_

_Air full of grief_

John couldn't think of anything else than Sherlock. Everything he saw reminded him about the time they had together and it made his insides aching, torn. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he made no efford to wipe them away, when they fell.

_It is you now_

_Stuck within_

_Soul is burning_

_No chance to win_

He remembered their very first evening. Sherlock dancing round the living-room, thrilled by the thought of a serial-killer. Kissing Mrs. Hudson goodbye and calling out 'The game is on!'. The Game… The deadly game Moriarty knew too well to play. Equal to Sherlock. Better than Sherlock? He still couldn't believe a single word Sherlock had said. Was he there, upon the roof, still playing this evil game?

_What have you done to the game_

_Was it a victory a shame_

_Where have you gone_

_Before morning dew_

_The game will not end_

_Without you_

He didn't know where to go, didn't care about himself. Stubbles had appeared on his greyish face, dark shadows lay beneath his red-rimmed eyes. His clothes were crumpled, he didn't change when going to bed. Though not to sleep. Sleep, oblivion, so longed for, would never come.

_Ears of lost minds_

_Luke and torn_

_Dresses rotten_

_And broken stores_

In the nights, when he lay awake, thoughts would come. Thoughts about what he had lost. What Sherlock had took with him, when he went. Not only his own life, but also John's. He was dead since, just existing, from day to day to day.  
Lunar light would wander around the room, illuminating every single piece of furniture in this silver glow. Damn silver light. Silver… like his eyes. Silver was also the film on the package of tablets. They would bring oblivion. Take the pain away. Would let him dream of how it could have been…

_And the meaning_

_It's sold too soon_

_Can the blister _

_substitute the moon_

He could not get on, not without him. He clinged to his prayer, 'a wonder – don't be dead', like a mantra, stopping him from thinking something else… to put an end to this all.

_What have you done to the game_

_Was it a victory a shame_

_Where have you gone_

_Before morning dew_

_The game will not end_

_Without you_

Thousands of miles away, Sherlock knew, that it will come to an end. The blazing glaze of the midday-sun bathed everything in white light, but clouds of sand were rapidly gathering at the outskirts of the village. His prey was hiding in the last of the houses in this street, not knowing what was to come upon him. Unaware of the danger…

_And the hot sun_

_Paints the door_

_Your philanthropists_

_Sighed once more_

Sherlock approached the sniper from behind. He was the second he has found, then only one would be left. The sniper didn't notice him, the desert-storm was too loud, swallowing his carefully placed steps. This one was for Mrs. Hudson…

_Wind was blowing_

_Air through pipes_

_Holes in bodies_

_Mortal cries_

Now, finally, he could return to London. Returning home. He knew where to find the last of Moriarty's men. He knew his name… Sebastian Moran. The one for John… John. He hoped he would not be too late. He must not be late! Hatred raged hot through his frame, hatred toward Moriarty.  
For perverting his beloved game, the game, which had also become John's life. At the graveyard, so long ago, he couldn't bear the look in his eyes, the defeat written in the posture. Caused by what Sherlock had done, was forced to do. But he would put an end to it. Once and for all. Now.

_What have you done to the game_

_Was it a victory a shame_

_Where have you gone_

_Before morning dew_

_The game will not end_

_Without you_


End file.
